The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As the plane descended, Barbara stared at the rain pattering against the windows. It was less familiar than it had been when she left a year ago with her first trophies. For the past year, if anything had come out of the sky, it had been snow. Such was life in Russia, but she was proud of who she had become and what she had done, and she allowed her smile that would scare anyone who saw it. She had left Portland an eighteen-year-old girl triumphant at her revenge- but she was a woman now, versed in vodka, caviar, and the fine art of creating a mindless prostitute. No one at home would recognize her as mousy, bullied Barbara. Her size-18 frame that had left her the target for the meanest girls Oregon could offer remained the same, but she was no longer cowed and self-loathing. A year being trained in Russia had left her confident, charming when she wanted to be, and with a wicked smile that could sweep a man out of the arms of a supermodel.

The announcement came over the PA that they could remove their seatbelts and get their bags, and she looked through her faded green and gray backpack one last time, stroking the letters of her name written on the front in rainbow marker. Perfect. She peeked inside to see the tip of her iceberg of electronic devices, any of which could freeze a brain solid so Barbara could chip it into the shape she desired. MP3 players, cell phones, CDs, laser pointers, DVDs- and the flash drive that contained her most precious program. She grabbed it and hung it around her neck, tucking it neatly under her sweatshirt. She combed her fingers through her medium-length hair, frosted blonde but little more, and that only for business purposes. She was ready to go. She had her gift from Russia, her own house, a cover scholarship to Portland State in computer science so she could continue to perfect her work, and of course, her new business. “Barbie’s Dreamhouse” was a bar to the public, a brothel to those in the know, and an auction house for those in the business. She’d wheeled her deal out of the toughest mobsters in the world and lived to tell about it- but of course they gave it to me. I’m one of the best mind controllers in the world! she thought, slinging the backpack over her shoulder and skipping down the corridor with a mile-wide smile on her face.

This was where it had all begun, with three catty cheerleaders made over into Russian-speaking whores with Russian identities and Russian thought patterns. There was no way for anyone to know that Petra Hamzova, Oxana Mirslova, and Elena Davydova were originally the three cheerleaders that drove Barbara to the edge of the bridge before her father saved her and sent her to spend summer in a foreign country that had made her not just a new person, but a new class of being. Now she was back, and better than ever, ready to show Portland and the world what she had learned and what she had become.

She sailed through customs without anyone blinking at some of the extra software and wires in some of her devices- but at baggage claim, she broke out in a insane fit of the giggles at the billboard rotating in front of the belt. Walk together! No one is ever alone- 5K walk/run to benefit the Oregon State Police suicide prevention foundation. In memory of Kelly Lang, Justine Martin, and Jolene Davis.”

So that’s what a prom picture looks like, Barbara thought with a smirk, thinking about how she’d avoided hers like the plague. The locked-arms, “friends forever” pose made Barbara want to laugh and barf at the sentimentality of it. She snapped a picture with her camera phone and saved it as her background in celebration. Even a year later, she couldn’t believe that no one had questioned what had happened. She hadn’t even bothered to spike any of the e-mail suicide notes with her subliminal poison. The plan was just to get the girls presumed dead. Battered clothing found five miles of rapids later, along with suicide notes on every social media platform any of them had ever used did the trick. No one looked twice at the fake Russian passports belonging to the empty-eyed, silent tramps heading to Moscow.

No one had known that the three Russian tarts who got off the plane ready to offer themselves on the nearest street corner hadn’t existed when the plane took off.

She snatched her bag from the belt with a swagger in her step. Flinging it over her shoulder, she pulled out her car keys- courtesy of her Russian friends- and looked for the vanity plates she suggested. A smirk spread over her face as she spotted the car. “Fuckin’ ace, Barb! Hey, world, you wanna call me a chickenshit fat whore now? Well, suck it! Oh, that’s right, you are! Every hour! With a plug the size of Cleveland up your ass and little fuzzy handcuffs on! And loving it like it’s senior prom, baby!” she yelled, pointing at the sky with both barrels as she slid across the hood of the- no, her-new Corvette and jumped in the car. The license plates read URM9NOW as she roared down I-5 to the boondocks.

She was on top of the world now, and every nasty thing ever done and said to her was coming back double to everyone else. She pounded the gas pedal of her Corvette and drove on until she saw the boxy old strip club. The pale pink sign that read Barbie’s Dreamhouse was just going into place, and she did a donut into the reserved parking space at the front that read Barbara Greer- Mistress of the Dreamhouse She couldn’t hide her excitement as she went in the secret door, through the mirrored corridors to her living space. It wasn’t much, just a little place she would really call home while pretending to live on campus. The bed was perfectly soft and full of cushions, facing a 72″ high-definition big screen. A fridge was next to the TV, and when she opened it, she saw that it was full of food, vodka and beer. “Just the way I like it,” she purred as she went upstairs ot the strip joint. It was still under construction, but one of the poles was already in place, and she twirled around it in jubilation.

“No jet lag for our sister now, is there?” a blond man in his early twenties said with a strong Russian accent, giving her a huge grin and a bigger hug.

“Hell no! Hey, Alexei, they’re having a charity walk for Petra, Oxana, and Elena! You wanna sign the Dreamhouse up for a team?” Barbara asked, sarcasm dripping off every word.

“We’re just starting up. We need to make money before we give it away,” Alexei replied just as sarcastically.

“That won’t take long. You know it’s physically impossible to watch a movie without eating popcorn. So some cheap horror or straight to the action?” Barbara said, tossing her flash drive to the DJ booth and signaling the workmen to set out rows of chairs.

“Straight to the action, of course!” Alexei replied. He knew her recklessness could be her undoing- but it was also what they needed to start their operation up with a bang.

“I ain’t been to a mall here since I was fifteen. Oxana and her boyfriend kept me strictly to Wal-Mart. How you think Foxy Oxie likes being the merchandise now?” Barbara said with a cackle.

“Not even a trace of the original girl. You said she was some virginal prude, yes?” Alexei asked.

“So she claimed. Well, you fucked her- you tell me,” Barbara said, throwing her keys in the air and catching them before grabbing her book bag and tossing a red backpack with more devices inside to Alexei. “You got the van. We’re filling it tonight. Gotta make sure my little movie works, after all. You know it will, but why risk any of these brats remembering they aren’t Russian whores?” she added, hopping into her Corvette and peeling off, leaving Alexei straining to catch up.

“You’re certain? You’re sure the evidence is there, Sanderson?” Alex Thomas said with concern on his face as his sergeant read off the report from the Portland Police Department.

“Only DNA on the clothes came from pussy juice. No body parts recovered or bones found later. Persons matching the descriptions were seen in the airport less than an hour after the presumed time of death,” the strawberry blonde recited with a knowing smile.

“Not that. We know those girls were murdered. I meant that Greer is back in town and working with the Russians. And do we have enough evidence to convict her in the Castle? What was done to them could be construed as a normal, albeit extreme harem.”

“Missing Persons has ten cases in this week, forty in the month, and a forty percent rise in prostitution arrests. Photog got these images of some of the missing girls. Notice a common thread, sir?”

“Headphones or iPod visible at all times. That’s a subliminalist’s MO, all right. Think the Bear is eating those missing persons?”

“No, sir! Boning them, perhaps, but I’ve been told that eating pussy isn’t that big for the Russians,” Sanderson replied with a chuckle.

“Wealth and Taste will throw her off a bridge if they find out she’s trafficking out of a strip club. How many Russian ships are in port at any given time? It’s too easy. She ships them off when they’re done with the show and probably gets double payment to boot. You sure it’s Greer running this?”

“Well, it would make sense. We know she went to Russia, and the newest strip club in the city is called Barbie’s Dreamhouse.” Sanderson frowned. “But it won’t hold up in the Castle. She’d walk. Too easy to prove it’s just the Russians using girls as their shipping cargo.”

“No, but we can use that as leverage to get her convicted for the Willamette River incident. You sure this is Greer? Of course she’d be cocky. She’s nineteen and just murdered three girls who were torturing her, and all she got as a consequence is a business, a scholarship, and a chance to go home and torture more of the torturers. Greer’s code is nasty. We need to be sure this is her and not some other Carrie who learned mind control,” Thomas said, wringing his hands, not pleased at the thought of two bitter controllers in the city.

“Greer is definitely back. Enrollment papers at Portland State, picture ID, various traffic tickets... ohhh, boy, here’s some footage of her talking her way out of one with the cell phone out. Poor cop lost his job for jerking off in the speed trap. Need any more proof, sir?” Sanderson said with a low whistle.

“Pick her up at school. Make it clean. I don’t want the Russians getting any idea of what we did, but leave some bread crumbs for Wealth and Taste so they can go after the Russians. I want Greer alive and in the Labyrinth.

“I’ll contact Portland.” Sanderson hesitated. “Sir... do you have personal interests in this one?”

Thomas shook his head. “Think about it. If this was a real court, and someone tried to bring her in front of a judge and jury, she’d hang the jury as soon as she told them how much she was tortured and bullied since childhood. She almost jumped off that bridge, according to all reports. She got her training on a trip her father sent her on to save her life. So you’ve got someone with nothing to lose, a chip on her shoulder, and training that can kill. Imagine the pool for that on our side of the fence. Ram, Three Sisters, the list goes on. She’s nineteen years old and she already murdered three young women who could have grown up in college. We don’t know what could have happened to them. All we know is that they’re gone enough to earn a death certificate in every database mundane authorities can access so their families can have closure.”

“Not the first like that I’ve seen,” Sanderson said darkly.

“You don’t want to open Pandora’s Box here. Imagine how many parents, kids, or even teachers would think ‘you know what, they got what they deserved, let them live with the consequences of their actions’. There’s a difference between punishing bullying and letting the cycle continue and intensify. We need to make an example of Greer to keep it from getting worse. Bring her in,” Thomas said, staring Sanderson down until she turned away and began the process.

“Like my app? You can hold the phone if you want. There, see how pretty the colors are? They’re like a game, red into blue, blue into green, green into yellow, yellow into orange,” Barbara said with a vicious grin as the coed next to her on the park bench began to waver. The girl’s eyes closed gradually until they were just slits, the girl’s determination to keep watching the shifting colors the only thing keeping them from closing completely. Finally, it was too much for her to take, and she slumped over into Barbara’s waiting arms and ample bosom.

“There, now listen, listen and come with me. Interesting times are ahead for you,” Barbara purred. The girl’s soft moan told her that the underlying code to raise her arousal and erase her awareness was working as it was supposed to. Barbara ran her fingers through the coed’s hair, sliding in the earbuds and leading the girl to the car. Every step took the coed deeper until she surrendered, unable to do anything but lie down in the back seat and touch herself through her jeans. This is why I get tinted windows, Barbara thought with a giggle. As she pulled out, a black Lincoln darted in front of her.

“You’re lucky you missed! I’ve induced enough fake suicides- it’s time someone jumped for real, asshole!” Barbara screamed as she kicked into reverse, more worried about not disturbing the coed’s descent into being a mindless stripper than she was her driving. She didn’t get far, though; a second Lincoln boxed her in from behind, and four men and women in black suits, wearing shades, and equipped with their own headphones and iPods ran out with guns drawn.

“Hands in the air! Barbara Greer, you’re under arrest for the murders of Jolene Davis, Kelly Lang, and Justine Martin!” the strawberry blonde leading the pack declared.

“You’re kidding, right? Haven’t you seen the billboards for the hotline? Since when is suicide murder? What kind of joke is this. Alexei, if this is some sort of drill, I’m gonna kill you! I was about to vibrate a blonde bitch who called me fat, and you know what happens when someone does that!” Barbara screeched.

“We’re not your normal cops, Ms. Greer. Please come with us,” the strawberry blonde said, dangling her badge before Barbara’s eyes. It reflected a rainbow of colors in the sunlight that Barbara had to blink away- but they dazzled her long enough to get her into handcuffs and into one of the Lincolns.

“URM9NOW? Really, Ms. Greer? Those kinds of tags alone should put you in the Maze,” the strawberry blonde added, sitting next to her prisoner as they drove off, badge still before Barbara’s eyes.

“I am who I am, I am who... I am... who...I...” Barbara stammered and yawned as the badge shut down more of her brain. She never noticed her iPod being placed in her hand and her earbuds being put in her ears. She slumped over, lost in her own commands.